The Teacher and his Student
by Movies-R-Us
Summary: Arthur goes to West Valley High and he has an English teacher named Mr. Eames. Mr. Eames has a crush on Arthur, who is too busy being abused at home, and bullied at school to notice anyone romantically. Future AxE Warnings: violence,language,noncon,slash
1. Chapter 1

Inception Fanfiction

Warnings: Mentions of violence/non-con/abuse, illegal age relationship, teacher x student, and language (Later chs there might be explicit non-con/violence)

Pairings: ArthurxEames (later chs), ArthurxOC, and possible ArthurxFischer (later chs)

Summary: Arthur is a student at a high school where he is constantly bullied. When he goes home at night he is often beat. One English teacher, Mr. Eames, takes an interest in him and something special blooms between them.

Arthur trembled lightly and turned his head away from Fischer and Saito, the two most popular Juniors at West Valley High. The popular boys had spent the majority of the year leering at Arthur in the locker room, or making snide comments when they passed him in the hallways. It was luck—and Arthur's intelligence—that gave Arthur a schedule full of classes that neither boy had.

"See ya tomorrow, Arthur," the way Fischer drawled his name made Arthur's skin crawl, and the wink that followed every encounter made him want to vomit. What had he ever done to prompt this? He never flirted with either boy, nor had he ever done anything to make them feel animosity towards him. He sighed and left; hair still wet and skin still damp from the industrial shower. The cold December air clung to the water droplets on his body and Arthur gave an inadvertent groan of pain. He hugged his arms close and walked towards the bus stop—having forgotten his jacket at home, he shivered painfully. Sitting down on what he only hoped was a piece of old gum, Arthur hunched into himself and began to mentally repeat lines from "Lord of the Rings" to keep his mind off of the cold.

Twenty minutes later Arthur realized the bus wasn't coming. He sighed heavily and collected his things before making the five mile trek back to his father's apartment on 4th St. If it had been a Wednesday Ariadne, his neighbor, would have been able to drive him home; instead, he had volleyball practice in the dead of winter.

"Wha' the fuck took you so long?" Arthur could smell the alcohol from down the hall, but when he opened the door to 18B, it was overwhelming.

"I missed the bus, dad."

"Fucking fuck up, piece 'o shit."

"Dad—I'm sorry, I had volleyball—," Arthur moved forward; closer to the wall and further from his father, who may have decided to be an angry drunk today.

"That's a fag sport, Arthur."

"Please, just… I'm cold, can I go take a shower?"

"Do whatever the fuck you have to. Just stop getting home late. I had to order in. Don't let it happen again."

"I won't." Arthur shuddered as he padded over to the desk. He had no room—he slept on the couch in the living room, and used a filing cabinet as his dresser. He didn't have much either way, but what Arthur did have was kept pristine. His school uniform was pressed and placed at the top of the drawer labeled A-H.

Arthur ran to the bathroom and instead of shower, a lie he told his father every day, he bolted the door and pulled out a cheap Toshiba laptop his old Chemistry teacher had gifted to him. While on this computer he did his homework and then proceeded to a chatroom. It was embarrassing, but Arthur had made himself an account with a fake age—23—and talked only people he didn't know. Sometimes it was nice to talk to people who didn't judge him by how well he did in school, how poor he was, or how cripplingly-shy he seemed.

Eames had been warned when he joined the staff of West Valley High that every single female student would flock to him because of his "sexy" English accent and rugged good looks. This would be fine and well for a straight 26 year old man, but Eames was as gay as a rainbow, and damn proud of it. Of course, he hadn't told his students, though he assumed many of them had figured that out for themselves by now. The only problem Eames had working with teenagers was Arthur Harris. Arthur was the most intelligent, sweet, handsome and fascinating man Eames had ever met. It was just a cruel twist of fate that Arthur was still 17.

"Mr. Eames?"

"Yes, Jessica?"

"It's four thirty, can we all leave now?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, of course. Everyone: detention dismissed." Eames sighed once the room had emptied out. Today had been a long Thursday. Not only had he had to teach every period of the day, but he had to proctor detention for an hour and a half after school. He booted up his computer and began grading the paragraphs he had assigned his Honors British Literature classes. When he finished reading Arthur's eloquent and well-thought out essay his mind wandered towards the young man…

Arthur had sinewy muscles—the muscles of a volleyball setter—and a delicate smile that only graced his lips on occasion. Every time Eames had made his student smile something fluttered within his stomach and he grinned like an idiot for the rest of the day. Daydreams of Arthur knocking on his classroom door and throwing himself at Eames like a love-sick schoolgirl were a guilty pleasure that Eames allowed himself almost daily. Arthur's pouting lips pressed up against his own was an image too sinful to ever be real.

Eames packed up his things—including three stacks of essays to be graded over the weekend—and began the trek to his car. It was an unusually cold five-thirty in December, and he tugged his woolen scarf tighter around his neck. After putting his things into the trunk of his silver Volvo, Eames saw none other than Arthur sitting alone on a bus-bench. He imagined that he could smell Arthur's sweet musk on the icy wind, and longed to sprint over and pull the shivering boy into his arms. But that was all illegal. It was something a teacher could not do. No matter how much he loved Arthur Harris, it would never be.

He drove out of the lot just in time to see Arthur give up and begin walking down the street. This action alone almost drove Eames over the edge. He was so close to just turning around and throwing the student into his car, but, yet again he resisted.

Arthur hated Fridays. On Friday mornings it was only a matter of seven hours until it was the weekend, and thus a forty-eight hour period in which he had to stay at home with his father. Luckily there was a week left of the volleyball season, and as long as he had to shower at school his father was careful enough not to leave marks. From the time he turned ten—the same year his mother left with some Spanish actor—Arthur's father had consistently and mercilessly beat him. When he was fifteen he was raped by his father. His dad had been insanely drunk and Arthur hadn't made dinner. Arthur didn't know if his father remembered the event, but it had never reoccurred, and he planned to keep it that way.

"Good morning class. I hope you have a great Friday, but I do want you to know that this is going to be a class like any other. We will be doing work. Christmas break isn't for another week, so I expect you to act as such." Mr. Eames had a commanding presence that calmed Arthur instantly. Suddenly all of his worries were gone and he was whisked off into the land of British Literature and British hunks. Dear God! Arthur had just referred to his teacher as a hunk!

Of course, Arthur knew he was gay, that had never come as a shock. But, Arthur had never imagined he'd find an older man attractive in that way… but then again, Mr. Eames was rather attractive.

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Eames. What was the question?"

"I asked which poet you chose for the freewrite I assigned." (Eames already knew who Arthur had picked, but it was so soothing to hear Arthur speak, especially about literature—Arthur would get a glazed look in his brown eyes, and he would smile lightly and subconsciously.)

"I chose the Earl of Rochester: John Wilmot."

"Ah, what an individual he was. Thank you, Mr. Harris. Jessica, who did you pick?"

The rest of the class continued without a hitch, but moments before the end of class Arthur's phone blared from his jacket pocket. He fumbled with it—trying to silence the blasted ringer—but it was still an interruption to the poetry reading Mr. Eames had begun.

"Arthur, would you please come after school. You can keep your phone, but I'd still like to discuss this outburst with you."

"Of course, Mr. Eames." Moments later, the bell rang and Arthur scurried from the room. He ducked into the fourth floor bathroom—the least used bathroom on the entire campus. Once in a stall he dialed his father's number.

"What is it?"

"Dad… I'm going to be a little late tonight…"

"What the fuck is it this time?"

"One of my teachers is keeping me late."

"Great. Just fucking fantastic! I need you to get your ass home the second that douche-bag prick lets you out. 'Kay? I'm having a guest over tonight and you need to make steak."

"Okay, dad. I'll hurry. I swear."

"You'd better." The phone clicked and Arthur was alone again. He hoped his father hadn't invited Mr. Hutchinson over again. Last time his father's boss had eaten at their house, Arthur had sat silently at the table while being eye-fucked by a man well into his fifties, and well into balding.

"Is that Arthur we hear?" Fischer's voice echoed around the cramped room, and Arthur swallowed quietly.

Eames hated knowing that Arthur was bullied, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not at a school where messing with either Saito or Fischer, the biggest bullies, could result in being fired due to a lawsuit by either father.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- so basically this is a chapter that has some non-con and violence in it (also a tid-bit of language), and I'd like to keep the story going as easily as possible. During my winter break the updates will be quicker, and I hope to abuse the time I have to write. I hope this is to everyone's liking and I'd really love some reviews. Have a great Christmas everyone. **

Eames hated knowing that Arthur was bullied, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not at a school where messing with either Saito or Fischer, the biggest campus bullies, could result in being fired due to a lawsuit by their fathers. Eames mostly hated knowing that his Arthur was bullied because of his intelligence and angelically good looks. Whenever he saw the young American hunched over at his lunch table (alongside Dominic Cobb, Ariadne Platt and Yusef Antal) he longed to strangle the life from the damned men who caused him that pain.

Eames glanced at his watch halfway through the day and sighed; his appointment with Principal Miles Cobb (Dominic Cobb's father) was in eleven minutes. It was his lunch break but he hadn't been able to eat—thoughts of Arthur flooded his mind every time he opened his mouth. It was sick, he knew that, but it was so hard to not imagine sucking Arthur's manhood up against his desk. And today after school Arthur was going to be alone in his room, and it was all his doing. He shouldn't have done that. Shaking these thoughts from his mind, Eames packed his lunch up and left his room—headed towards the main office building.

Arthur swallowed once more and opened the stall door. Standing there were Saito and Fischer, and three of their lackeys—each as plain as the next.

"Hi Saito. Fischer." Arthur nodded at each but kept his eyes on the scuffed tile floor.

"Hey Arthur. Why don't you try looking at us when you talk." Fischer's tone made Arthur flick his eyes up instantly, and just in time to see a fist hurled at his face. He only managed to divert the punch from his nose to his left cheek bone—where he heard a cracking and doubled over in pain.

"Please, stop. Please, guys. I didn't do anything, I swear!" Arthur let three or four tears slide down his cheeks before eyeing the teens in front of him wearily.

"Arthur baby, we know. Maybe we'd be more inclined to stop if you did a little something for us." Saito's eyes lit up intensely when he smirked down at Arthur.

"Wha- What do you want?"

"You, of course." Fischer thrust his fingers into Arthur's luscious black hair and yanked him to his knees. "Really, just one part of you _today_."

"God, no… I'll…"

"What? Do something else? What the fuck else _can_ you do Arthur?" Saito slapped him hard across the face, and the class ring he wore on his hand sliced a rough cut into his already red cheek. Saito looked at the blood on his ring disapprovingly before rubbing the blood onto Arthur's white polo shirt.

"Just do it fast, second period started a couple of minutes ago." Fischer unzipped his fly while talking and his erection—thick but very average—sprung into his face. Arthur grimaced and swallowed back bile before slowly opening his mouth.

"Remember: no teeth, or else." Saito spat the words dangerously and Arthur believed the ultimatum was serious. When his eyes widened slightly, the three other boys in the room—all on the volleyball team as well—laughed uncomfortably. Arthur cleared his mind of the situation and tried to picture an experience he wouldn't cringe to be in.

Mr. Eames.

The thought surprised Arthur, but as soon as he imagined Mr. Eames standing in front of him—erection at the ready and hand strung in his hair—it wasn't as hard to lean forward and begin sucking. He allowed this illusion to overwhelm him so that he was able to finish the job and swallow every last drop of Fischer's salty cum.

"That was so good; I'd have to imagine you practice." Fischer smirked before zipping himself up and faux-bowing to his friends. "Let's give Saito a turn and then we'll head on out."

"What about us?"

"What about you?"

"We've stood here, we aren't going to tell. Maybe we should get something out of it."

"Next time."

Arthur turned and dropped his jaw when he heard the words. Next time? There was going to be a next time? Before he had a chance to complain Saito's dick was stuffed down his throat. He choked—almost to the point of vomiting—but quickly regained his composure, and his illusion. The mantra Eames, Eames, Eames played in his mind and he finished Saito off in five or six minutes.

Before the group left they slapped Arthur around and kicked him twice, but made him swear he wouldn't reveal who had done this to him. He swore right and left—anything to make them go—and the moment they left he vomited into one of the toilets and washed his mouth out in the sink.

Eames finally made his way into the office, and saw he was several minutes early; so, of course, Principal Cobb was still out to lunch (probably at Donatello's Little Italian Kitchen on Saticoy). He sighed and sat down on one of the uncomfortable tweed chairs lined up outside the Principal and Vice Principal's offices and opposite the nurse's room. That's when he saw Arthur.

Arthur was sitting on the small cot set up against the wall—his cheeks flushed and several cuts adorning the redness. He was bruised and his hair thoroughly disheveled. Eames' fist clenched with anger and, without realizing he had even stood from the chair, marched into the nurse's room and kneeled down in front of Arthur.

"Arthur, are you alright?" Arthur's eyes grew wide when he saw his English teacher kneeling before him.

"I- I'm… sure, I'm fine. I just fell down the stairs after your class was over. That's all. It was really clumsy of me actually—,"

"Mr. Eames, are you here irritating my _patient_?" Nurse Calhoun stressed the only word she knew that had anything to do with medicine. Really she was just a woman too dull to make it to medical school, and too proud to admit she couldn't.

"No, Ms. Calhoun. I'm simply checking on Arthur. It was after my class he was injured." Eames turned to Arthur and gently moved a stray lock of hair from his face.

"Well thank you, but I need to clean him up. You can check on him next week when he's in your classroom." The disdain was clear in her tone and Eames turned to her crossly before brusquely nodding and returning to his place on the tweed chair across the hall. Arthur glanced up before Eames left and offered an apologetic and thankful smile. Eames heart trembled wildly.

"Ah, Mr. Eames. Right this way, please." Principal Cobb strode down the hallway and into his office—letting Eames follow slowly behind.

"What was it you wanted to discuss, sir?"

"Cut to the chase, I see. Well good for you. See, the thing is, I have received several complaints from parents about the time it takes for you to enter grades into the website. I was hoping you could take on a Teacher's Assistant to help you input grades and perhaps even grade trivial assignments. They would have to be a student, and hopefully one of your more intelligent ones at that. I would recommend you not take on a female student, simply because of how that may appear." Cobb smiled a wide and phony smile before he folded his hands over his desk calendar. "Of course, it is up to you."

"I know just the student. I presume this is all?"

"Yes, quite. Off to your class, time for grading and all that." Cobb stood when he left, but the gesture was all too forged for Eames' taste. The entire encounter had reeked of false friendliness and Eames had come from the meeting with only one good thought—Arthur and I will spend a lot more time together.

Arthur gasped quietly when his blood was wiped away, and clenched his jaw when the rubbing alcohol had been swiped across the cuts. He was soon bandaged and the swelling had gone down, moments later he ran from the office and towards his afternoon classes—he had already missed his second period and lunch half-hour, no need to miss anymore than necessary.

His day droned on miserably; a pop-quiz in AP American History, a silent reading French 3 class and a Chapter 17 Calculus test. All he had to look forward to was his meeting with Mr. Eames after school, and even that was for something he did wrong.

"Hello Arthur, sit down, please."

"Hey, Mr. Eames. I'm sorry again about my phone, it was my fath—,"

"No need to apologize Arthur, I understand that there are circumstances outside your control. Actually I wanted to talk to you about something more important. It's an offer of sorts, if you'd be so inclined to accept it."

"I'm sure I'd love to, Mr. Eames," Arthur beamed internally—Mr. Eames was the most caring and bright man he had ever met, anything he said was wonderful.

"I was hoping you would be my TA. I need a student who is trustworthy enough to grade papers correctly, and organized enough to help me input my grades on-time. Does this sound like something you'd be interested in?" Eames' heart pounded while he waited the several seconds for the answer—a yes and he'd get Arthur to himself for what could be hours a day, a no and he'd be left alone to drink away his embarrassment.

"Of course! That sounds marvelous… of course I would have to ask my father. I assume I would be staying late after school…"

"You would be. Do you need me to talk to your father about this?" Eames' cheeks hurt from smiling as hard as he was, and he wanted to get up and dance when he thought about going to the Harris household. Seeing where his Arthur lived would be a dream come true.

"Oh… I'm not sure…" Arthur's smile faded and he began to twiddle his fingers nervously. Eames almost groaned in pain when he saw how small Arthur became at the mention of his father.

"No, it's fine! I can play up the qualities of it that look good to colleges. In fact, would you like me to give you a ride home? I could talk to him tonight if that would help." The sooner the better, Eames thought to himself. I'll be able to dream about you on your living room couch—in your shower—on your bed—all weekend long.

Arthur suddenly imagined himself in the Silver Volvo he knew Eames drove and no matter how wrong he knew it was, he couldn't say no. Knowing he would be beaten for inviting a strange man into his father's apartment, he still couldn't say no. He would be sitting in Mr. Eames' car; the older man's musk on the seats, and his Starbuck's cup practically touching the leg of his uniform pants.

"I'd love it if you could drive me home. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you."


End file.
